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"What is she doing here?"
His voice low and even dangerous, yet laced with an undercurrent of irritation.
His assistant, ever cautious, hesitated before replying, "Sir, your mother arranged for Mrs Rathod to join the office. She passed every round of the interview."
A dry, humorless chuckle threatened to escape Prakhar's lips. Of course, she did. His mother had a talent for orchestrating situations that left him with little choice but to comply. The invisible shackles tightened, but he masked the discomfort with a slow nod.
"Arrange a cold coffee for me."
A simple command, yet it carried an edge sharp enough to cut. His assistant scurried away, relieved to be dismissed. Prakhar turned on his heel, stepping into the sleek, mirrored elevator. As the doors slid shut, sealing him away from the world. The elevator ascended, but his mind remained tethered to a woman he despised. Or perhaps, a woman he wished he could despise.
That, after all, was the real problem.
********************
Rida walked out of the finance department, a neatly compiled set of reports in her grasp. As the Project Lead, she had ensured that every detail in those pages—financial projections, risk assessments, and revised execution plans for the company's latest infrastructure project—was precise and irrefutable.Her steps were steady as she approached the conference room, where the executives were yet to assemble. The bodyguard stood stationed outside, an unwavering sentinel guarding the entrance. Without a flicker of hesitation, she extended the reports to him.
"Please hand these over to Mr. Singh," she instructed, her voice even, businesslike.
The bodyguard accepted them with a slight nod.Just as he turned to step inside, the heavy wooden door eased open slightly—a small, almost imperceptible shift,just enough for Prakhar, seated at the head of the long conference table to catch an unintentional glimpse of her. His gaze instinctively lifted from his wristwatch to the woman standing outside.
Rida.
Dressed in a crisp Business attire..She adjusted the strap of her watch, oblivious to the pair of cold, assessing eyes locked onto her.The soft glow of the corridor lights accentuated the sharp lines of her features, the unwavering determination in her eyes. She was elegance wrapped in defiance, an unwanted presence in his empire, yet undeniably a part of it now.
His jaw tightened.
Of all places, she had ended up here. Within his world, among his people, delivering reports for a project under his name. No matter how much he despised the marriage forced upon him, no matter how much he had dismissed her, she was standing there—unshaken, unmoved.
Prakhar's grip on his pen tightened. As she turned on her heel to leave, completely unaware of his lingering stare, something unspoken curled inside him-a mix of irritation, unwanted awareness, and something else he refused to name.
The door closed, cutting off his view,snapping him back into the moment. He exhaled sharply.
*****************
The air outside buzzed with efficiency. Chauffeurs polished chrome while employees streamed in like synchronized ants. Security was tighter than airport customs—only those with appointments, IDs, or maybe divine prophecy made it through.
But then came a coral-lipped hurricane in six-inch heels—Niyati Sharma.
"Listen, Uncle ," she said, her voice sugary-sweet but sharp as a switchblade, "I’m not a courier, and I’m definitely not leaving. Call Rida. Now."
The guard shifted nervously, "Madam, you can’t enter without authorization.Visitors need a code or an authorization slip—"
"Do I look unauthorized?" she snapped, sliding down her nose as she glared. "I’m not a nuclear threat, I'm a best friend. Do you need a blood sample to let me hug my own girl?"
"Rules are rules, Ma’am—"
"I’m not here to disrupt the United Nations. I’m here to give my bestie a hug & probably drag her out for coffee & trauma-dumping. Do. Not. Test. Me."
She snapped, one manicured hand planted firmly on her waist. "She is Rida Rathod. Heard of her?"
The security guard, an elderly man clearly not paid enough to deal with fireballs like her, looked helpless.
"She’s married to your CE –"
Heads turned.
"–She’s with me," came a calm voice from the glass entrance.
Rida.
Her heels clicked a calm rhythm as she walked over, holding a signed slip. She looked at Niyati with the expression of someone trying to save face while internally screaming.
"Nia!" she hissed, handing her the slip. "What the hell was that?"
They hugged tight. Rida lingered a second longer, and Niyati felt it.
She pulled back, "A mild inconvenience. I’m dramatic, not criminal," Niyati winked, flipped her hair like a diva at Cannes, and strutted past the security post as if she owned the building.
Minutes Later – Lounge Area, 5th Floor
The cafeteria was spacious, stylish in an understated way—glass walls framed the city skyline, and soft jazz floated through the air like perfume. Sleek tables were spaced generously, offering privacy even in a crowd. Rathod Corporation didn’t serve snacks; it served power meals.
Rida and Niyati slipped into a cushioned booth by the window.
Niyati smirked.
"They all got stiff when I said 'Rathod". Honestly, your name holds more weight than gold here."
Rida groaned. "Stop using that name like it’s a VIP pass to Hogwarts."
"But it is! You should see the look on their faces—like I dropped the CEO’s actual crown in front of them."
"I’m not here as a Rathod," Rida muttered. "I’m just an employee. I work like the rest of them."
"That’s ridiculous," Niyati leaned forward. "You’re Rida freaking Rathod. Why are you acting like some intern trying not to piss off her boss?"
"Please. You’re married to the owner. You don’t need to be tiptoeing around like some intern. Just own it, Rida," she continued..
"I didn’t come here to wear his name like an armor."
"Why not?" Niyati pushed. "It’s not like you begged for the surname. You married into it. You survived it."
"I just want to be seen for who I am, Nia. Not because of Rathods. Not because of the man I married. Just… for me."
She chuckled, "He'll probably thinks I came here to cause trouble or get revenge... Classic Mr. Arrogant assumptions."
Niyati teasingly said ,"Well, maybe you should mess with his head a little. Say something like, ‘Rathod surname is a free ticket to success’, Watch his brain overheat..
The word left Niyati’s mouth like an accidental curse.
Rida gave her a exaggerated smug smile and said,"Mm..Tempting… but no. I won’t stoop to that level. My strength is in showing him I never needed his name to stand tall."
And at that exact moment…
Unseen by them—Prakhar was passing by the cafeteria’s wide entrance. Escorting a pair of international business associates, he moved with his usual composed stride, shoulders squared.
But then—
That word hit his ear.
"Rathod…Surname is a free ticket to success"
The voice was faint. But unmistakable.
And like a switch flipped, his steps paused. Just slightly. Barely a breath’s hesitation—but for him, that was enough.
His gaze flicked to the corner table.
To her.
To Rida.
Something inside him… fractures. A small, quiet crack.He misses the next part, where Rida denies it with grace. Instead, the bitterness seeps in. Disappointment spread across his face, settling like a storm behind his eyes. He’d thought she was different. Quiet. Dignified. Not the kind to climb ladders she didn’t build.
His eyes harden, jaw clenched. His fingers, once resting lightly against his coat, curled into a subtle fist.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t break stride. But something shifted in his expression.
A flicker of something colder. Sharper.
"I thought she was not like the rest, Atleast", the thought slithered through his mind like a silent accusation.
He turned his face before his business guests noticed the distraction—but not before the wind from his passing stirred the air around them.
And she felt it. A small gust of wind ruffles Rida’s hair as she turns slightly—like she senses something.
She caught his shadow as he passed. Her breath hitched. A strange current brushed her skin. Her eyes darted to the hallway.
He had passed.
He had heard.
And something told her—not all of it.
A flicker of fear danced in her chest. But she swallowed it, lifting her chin. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he didn’t hear what it sounded like.
She blinked, confused for a moment thought ," Maybe he was just… being him. Cold. Distant. Complicated."
She shook her head slightly, brushing the strange heaviness off her chest.But her stomach twisted.
She had no idea he had already rewritten the scene in his mind. That the war between perception & reality had already begun. That somewhere the man who hadn't seen or talked to her nicely since Bangkok had just added another stone to the wall he was building between them
[ Back at the table... ]
"You’re quiet," Niyati said, chewing a pastry.
"Because you almost made me sound like a gold-digger," Rida replied.
"Relax. That’s my role in this friendship.” She laughed. "You’re the saint. I’m the storm. It balances out."
But Rida didn’t laugh back.Something about this place, this day, felt… off.
***************
[At Night]
She entered her room with a sigh, shoulders finally dropping after a long day.
She ruffled her hair forward, trying to shake off the day’s weariness. Her dupatta slid off her shoulders, and she flung it on the bed, letting it land like a fallen feather. This room, with its quiet corners and fading jasmine scent, had become her sanctuary over the past five months. Safe. Distant. Hers.
As she turned to close the door behind her—
It slammed backward.
Her heart skipped a beat.
He was there.
Prakhar Rathod. Her husband. Unannounced. Unapologetic.
The same man who had once thrown her out of his room now stood in hers.
His presence didn’t scream—but it echoed. Bold. Purposeful
She froze, stunned by the sheer audacity. He didn’t just stand there—he occupied the space. His broad frame filled the doorway.
His eyes locked on her, jaw taut, chest rising and falling beneath the white shirt he wore, the first two buttons casually undone—exposing the smooth line of his collarbone and just enough muscle to remind her of the man he was, beneath all the cold.
She swallowed.
“Ye kya badtameezi hai?” she snapped, voice sharp, but her hands curled into fists by her sides.
He didn’t answer.
He stepped inside slowly, without a word, & closed the door behind him—his hand reaching back without taking his eyes off her. The movement pulled the fabric of his shirt tighter over his chest, outlining every sculpted line that made her breath hitch.
Not like someone invading her space, but like someone reclaiming something—an answer, perhaps. A truth.
The click echoed through the room like a drumbeat.
A beat of silence stretched between them.
He didn’t look around.
She didn’t move.
He didn’t sit.
She straightened her posture, bracing herself against the rush of emotions tightening her chest.A part of her already knew. Somewhere beneath all her defenses and restraint, she understood the storm in his eyes.
Still, she asked—voice quiet but composed.
“Do you need something... Mr. Rathod?”, Her voice feigning calm..
He chuckled. But not out of humor. It was a bitter sound
"Mr. Rathod," he repeated,shaking his head slowly, tasting the name on his tongue like it burned... "It suits your tongue now, doesn’t it?"
She said nothing.
He took a few steps closer, and for the first time, his eyes looked around—not at the room, but at the life she’d made inside it.
Soft pillows. A stack of books. A shawl draped neatly on the couch. Familiar. Lived in.
“You’ve made yourself quite... comfortable,” he said, voice edged with something sharp. “Settled into your role—using the Rathod name like a key.”
The words struck like flint on stone. Sparking.The air between them burned hotter. And then—rage. Slow and fiery sparked in her eyes.
He stepped closer.Too close that the scent of his cologne—dark, warm, spicy—invaded her senses. His heat. His presence. Everything about him poured over her skin like smoke curling around a flame.
“Tell me something, Rida...” he asked, voice quieter now. “Do you plan to turn this room into your little empire too? Or is the Rathod surname already enough to open doors?”
Her jaw clenched.
The insult hit its mark.
"What did you just say?"
"I just said—don’t attach yourself to something that’s going to end soon anyway. This marriage. My name. Whatever little comfort it’s giving you—don’t get used to it."
The words hit like a slap.
And then she moved.
In a swift, angry motion, she yanked him grabbing the collar of his shirt.
He didn’t budge.
Solid. Grounded. Infuriatingly immovable.
Instead, she stumbled a step forward, their bodies almost brushing.
Her fingers remained clenched in his collar, knuckles white. Her chest rose and fell in fury.
“How dare you.” Her voice was low. Deadly calm. “Don’t you ever think I need your name to make a place for myself in this world.”
Her breaths were quick. Hot. Furious.
She held her grip tight, like every word that followed was carved from her soul.
"I’ve earned every inch of respect I get. I don’t beg for it. I don’t steal it. And I sure as hell don’t use anyone’s name to get it."
Her fingers clenched tighter into the crisp fabric on his chest, over the steady beat of his heart.Her chest rose and fell against him with every breath she fought to control.
"You think every girl out there wait for some rich man’s surname to be something?"she scoffed. "I worked my way up. Alone. Without shortcuts. Without shadows."
He watched her. Something shifted in his eyes—just a flicker—but it was gone before it settled.
"You think I need your goddamn name to walk into respect?"she growled.
"You think your surname is some royal stamp I beg for?", Her chest brushed his with every word spat in fury. Her fingers trembled, but never loosened.
"You’ve got a nerve," he growled catching her wrists.
"Grabbing my collar like it’s yours to touch."
His voice calm but deadly..
Her lips curved—not a smile, but a dare.
"Maybe I like how it chokes your ego.But still it's better than having a heart made up of ice and mouth full of venom."
And that did it.
He moved.
Fast. Predatory.
In one swift motion, his grip on her wrists tightened & twisted it behind her back, pulling her in until her chest collided with his —Harder..
Not rough. Not cruel.
But firm. Dominating.
Her lips parted in a silent gasp—her gaze never faltered.She stumbled forward into him.Her body arched back slightly with the force of it.
His shirt stretched tight across his chest, the fabric straining with the sudden tension. She could feel the hard lines beneath—muscle coiled under crisp cotton, every breath he took pushing against her like a storm held barely at bay.Her hair—long, wild, unbound—spilled down her back, and as his arm tightened around her, it slid over his flexed forearm like liquid silk, some strands catching against his wristwatch, tangling like they, too, refused to let go.
"You’ve touched my collar one too many times,"he muttered.
"And every time, I let it slide."
Her jaw twitched as his hot breath ghosted down her neck .
His voice dropped, gravelly.
"But don’t mistake my patience for weakness."
Her breath hitched. "And don’t mistake my pride for permission."
His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second.
"You’ve got a mouth that runs faster than your mind," he said coldly.
"And you’ve got an ego bigger than your humanity," she shot back.
His eyes darkened.
And in a flash—he pushed her back until the cool wood of the door pressed into her spine.His other hand rested on the wall beside her head.
She gasped again—her chest heaving up against his with every breath. Her heart thudded loud enough, she was sure he could feel it against his own. That rising and falling rhythm between them sparked something fierce.
His body caged her in.. Completely.
The sensation—the sharp contrast between his raw masculinity and her soft, flowing hair—made the air grow thick.
The scent of him curled through the strands—musk and danger and a wicked.
Their bodies stayed tangled for a moment. A breath. A heartbeat. Tension danced between them, the kind that crackled in the silence and burned under the skin.
His face hovered just inches from hers, their breaths tangling.
Her free hand pushed against his chest, but he didn’t budge.
Didn’t even flinch.
His grip tightened fractionally.
Not rough. Not brutal. But firm.
Dominating.
His forearm tensed again—sending another wave of movement through her hair, causing it to lift slightly before falling back over his arm like a silk ribbon clinging to flame.
Her eyes widened, lips parting as her body reacting not to fear—but to the chaos unraveling between them.
She shivered—reflexively. But her eyes, flicked to the mirror in front of her, remained fierce. Even with her arm twisted behind her, even wrapped in his grip, she didn’t look owned.
No.
She looked unbroken.
He smirked.
It was that slow, dangerous smirk that only appeared when he was challenged. When someone dared to step into his world and didn’t flinch.
Her eyes flared. Her voice cut the air like a blade, "Never— ever —mistake my silence for submission, or your surname for survival."
He stepped back with dominance letting her wrist drop.His eyes never left hers.
She didn’t move.
"And next time," she said, "before cooking up your holy misconceptions, try hearing the entire truth."
They stand inches apart—rage and pride radiating between them, too stubborn to back down. The air is thick with unspoken things, but neither is ready to admit what’s truly burning underneath.
As he turned toward the door, something twisted within him—a flicker of satisfaction, of something he couldn’t quite place. He hadn’t expected her to fight back so fiercely.
.......
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